


Instruments of Shadow

by Lomonaaeren



Series: From Samhain to the Solstice 2019 [24]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Moral Ambiguity, Ruthless Fleamont Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Sequel to “Fruit of the Golden Tree.” Fleamont remains committed to the protection of his grandson Harry Potter as Harry turns seven. And if that has to involve the Wizengamot and blood purists and the mysterious locked room on the seventh floor of Potter Place…so be it.
Relationships: Fleamont Potter & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Fleamont Potter, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Series: From Samhain to the Solstice 2019 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532687
Comments: 141
Kudos: 2600





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my “From Samhain to the Solstice” fics for this year. It’s a sequel to my fic “Fruit of the Golden Tree” from last year, so read that one first. This will have three parts.

Fleamont Potter leaned back in his chair as he watched the face of Lucius Malfoy. The man was obviously trying to appear unimpressed, and just as obviously enjoying the old Firewhisky Fleamont’s ancestors had laid down, so old it had become the drink called Dragon’s Breath.

“What you ask might be impossible, sir,” Lucius said. He sneaked another sip of the whisky and closed his eyes. Fleamont knew exactly what that red-gold taste was like going down.

Well, he knew it from other times. So far, his tumbler rested in his hand as he watched Lucius, and Lucius was so enchanted with the taste and the honor of being entertained in Potter Place by Harry Potter’s guardian that he hadn’t noticed.

“But only _might_ ,” Fleamont noted, tapping his finger against the side of his own glass. It rang sweetly, the sound joining the soft murmur of the fire and the muffled whispers of the portraits on the walls. All of them in this sitting room had gilded frames. Impressing and lulling Lucius was part of the point.

“It is close to impossible.”

“That’s why I came to you, Malfoy.” Fleamont smiled at him and let a single golden swallow pass down his throat. The heat that was scorching in Firewhisky hummed pleasantly in his belly, and according to old stories, gave the unwary drinker self-confidence. Lucius would probably need every bit he could grasp. “The rest of the Wizengamot told me that you were the man who could do anything you wanted.”

“Except break the Dark Lord’s Imperius Curse, of course.” Lucius stared down into his glass. “One of the sorrows of my life.”

Fleamont held back a vicious snarl. Even in his cups, Lucius had enough wits to maintain that lie. Fleamont, of course, knew that such magic as pulsed from the Dark Mark on Lucius’s arm was the sort that could only be taken in willingly.

“Of course,” was all Fleamont said, bland and sure, because this was for Harry. “But I’m only asking you to look into that old case and ask a few questions. Not bring Albus Dumbledore up on charges.”

“An old case. A few questions.” Lucius made the Dragon’s Breath revolve within his glass. “Then it might be possible.” He tilted back his head and drained the glass to the dregs.

“Of course,” Fleamont repeated, and held out the decanter that his house-elves had brought to him the minute Malfoy entered the sitting room. “More whisky?”

*

“I don’t like that we’re conspiring with these bloody traitors.”

“Traitors against their own good sense, yes,” Fleamont said, as he sat down across from Sirius and made sure that Harry had some eggs on his plate as well as bacon. Apparently the Muggles had never given Harry bacon, and he had taken to it to the point where Fleamont had to make sure he didn’t eat a whole breakfast of it. “But you have to drop this idea that you’re on a certain political side and they’re traitors to the Order of the Phoenix, Sirius. It’s harming your intelligence.”

“What’s the Order of the Phoenix, Grand?” Harry chirped, sucking in a piece of bacon and then poking his fork at his eggs. He gave the sigh of a martyr and picked up an actual forkful of them when Fleamont looked at him.

“It’s an organization your parents fought with,” Fleamont said. “During the war, before you were born.”

Harry nodded and nibbled on the very smallest edge of egg he could get into his mouth. “And why would Malfoy be a traitor?”

“ _Mr._ Malfoy,” Fleamont corrected. As far as he was concerned, Harry could call the arrogant blood purists whatever he wanted, but it was true that as a young child, he couldn’t distinguish between private and public contexts very well yet. Fleamont wanted him to get used to always being polite so that he could get away with more important kinds of rudeness than leaving honorifics off.

Harry sighed, and went on sighing until he caught Fleamont’s eye. “Okay, Grand. Why is Mr. Malfoy a traitor?”

“He fought with You-Know-Who!” Sirius exclaimed, leaping into the fray because he was seemingly unable to help himself. “He’s a traitor to all good wizards who fight for the equal rights of Muggles and Muggleborns, Harry!”

Harry hesitated, and squirmed in his seat. “If I say that Muggles are the equals of wizards and they have all the rights we do,” he recited, very fast, the way Fleamont had often heard Sirius say it, “does that mean I have to go back and live with the Dursleys?”

Sirius blinked. Fleamont sipped his tea and waited. “No,” Sirius finally said. “We would never send you back there. Why did you think we would?”

He sounded injured. Fleamont sighed. A year out of prison had repaired much of Sirius’s lacking manners and some of his mind-wounds, but he still took Harry’s questions that were a result of the boy’s own mind-wounds too personally.

“Because if they’re equal to Grand, wouldn’t they mean I have to live with them, too?” Harry was staring at the plate now.

Sirius appeared absolutely bewildered about how to respond, so Fleamont reached out and gently clasped Harry’s shoulder, shaking his head when Harry looked up. “No, Harry. I won’t ever make you go back to them. You have my word.”

Harry nodded, his face clearing up for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and said, “So I don’t understand what Mr. Malfoy was a traitor to.”

“There were three sides to the war,” Fleamont said gently, before Sirius could get himself more tangled up in trying to explain. “Voldemort, the one who left the piece of soul in your scar, was on one, opposing Headmaster Dumbledore and the Ministry. Many wizards followed him. Mr. Malfoy did. But he lied to people who confronted him about it after the war and claimed to be enchanted. You remember me reading you the story about the wizard under the Imperius Curse the other day?”

Harry nodded carefully, then puffed his chest out. “And you said lots of people used it for ‘cuses! And that makes Mr. Malfoy a bad person if he was lying, because lying is wrong!”

“Is it?” Fleamont asked curiously. “Then why did you lie the other day when I asked you who let the chickens out of the garden and you said you didn’t remember and you hadn’t been anywhere near there and it must have been a magic fox?”

“It _must_ have been,” said Harry, staring up at him with big innocent eyes that made Fleamont fight to keep a smile off his face. He could imagine Lily looking exactly like that when she was a child, although admittedly he hadn’t known her then. “Only a magic fox could get into the garden!”

“But you remember that you admitted you were lying, Harry,” Fleamont said gently. “So why did you lie then? And were you a bad person when you were lying?”

Sirius started to speak, but Fleamont shook his head at him and sat back to watch the show. Harry kept opening his mouth and then closing it again with a little frown. He was obviously struggling with the situation.

Fleamont didn’t think that a bad thing. Harry would encounter far worse more dilemmas and needs to make up his mind outside the walls of Potter Place, after all.

“I reckon,” Harry said finally, watching Fleamont from the corner of his eye as if he assumed his grandfather would turn on him at any second, “that I was a bad person _in that second._ ” He articulated the words carefully. “But maybe somebody who lies ‘bout something like the Imperius Curse is bad _all the time._ ”

“An interesting defense, Harry,” Fleamont said gravely, picking up his cup of tea. “Why don’t you think about what makes a second of lying better than a month of lying, and then come and tell me this afternoon? After you work on your magical practice and your history.”

“Graaaaaand,” Harry whined softly. “It’s sunny today.”

“What about it?”

“When it’s sunny, I should get a holiday from lessons!” Harry looked up angelically and broke a heart across the table by adding, “Uncle Sirius said so.”

“Well, Uncle Sirius can explain to you why weather is not an excuse for skipping lessons,” Fleamont said, and ignored the whine that came his way. “While I look at the room on the seventh floor.”

Harry stuck his lip out and said, “I want to look at the room _with_ you, Grand.”

“I know you do, but you can’t right now.” Fleamont finished his tea and stood up. “And stop sneaking eggs under the table to Monster, Harry,” he added over his shoulder, nodding at the blurred shadow in the shape of a leopard that lay next to Harry’s chair legs. “You know he doesn’t actually eat. The house-elves have complained to me about finding sticky eggs all over the floor.”

Harry folded his arms and pouted. Fleamont just strode out of the kitchen. As far as he was concerned, Harry had probably picked up that tactic from his Muggle cousin, and the most effective way Fleamont could conceive of to show him that it didn’t work was to ignore it.

His heartbeat came a little faster as he walked towards the staircase that led up to the seventh floor. No more shadows shrouded it than normal, but it always felt that way to Fleamont. The seventh floor of Potter Place had once been the dwelling of the heads of the family and their children, but a slaughter had happened in the 1670s when a supposed friend led a detachment of assassins over the top of the wards and landed on the roof, cutting down from above. After that, future Potters had lived lower in Potter Place and more towards the interior.

The enemies who had slaughtered the Potter head of the family at the time had more than paid for their crimes. Fleamont thought he could still hear little whimpers when he walked this floor, and none of them came from Potter ghosts.

He stopped in front of the door two left from the top of the stairs. Of course it wasn’t dusty, despite what Fleamont thought would have been an immense temptation, if he was a house-elf, not to clean around here. The wood gleamed. But the shadows that stretched across the floor from underneath it were longer than normal, and Fleamont knew well that was not his imagination.

He rested his hand on the lock. It quivered, coming to life. The lion’s head that made up the leftmost portion of it turned towards him, and the nostrils lifted and sniffed. Then the jaws opened and clamped down on his flesh.

Fleamont stood silent, staring straight ahead. The shadows projecting from underneath the door had started to writhe. This was always the point that he thought he might not come back, despite how many times he had come back before, and the thought of leaving Harry orphaned was heartbreaking.

But the thought of leaving him open to political machinations was worse. Fleamont had created bargains with powers that would ensure Harry was protected physically and magically, but someone could still manipulate other people into hating or adoring Harry.

Fleamont intended that that not happen.

The lock finally clicked open, a sullen little sound, and the ruby light died out of the lion’s eyes. Fleamont pushed the door with the bitten side of his hand only. He stood in the middle of a room that _was_ dusty, because not even house-elves could get past the enchantments that guarded it.

The shadows gathered in thick drapes of black in the center of the room. There were two pedestals there, but Fleamont knew it only from experience; the drapes concealed every sign of them. The shadows that lay on the floor fluttered as though wings were passing through them, or as if they were _growing_ wings. Knowing what awaited there, Fleamont wouldn’t be surprised.

He stepped up to the nearest drape and tapped it with the wound that the lion had put into his flesh. It shuddered and fell back, and Fleamont smiled a little at the black wood revealed. Or what _looked_ like black wood, like the side of a harp. Underneath the other drape, which was smaller, a lute made of the same material waited.

Fleamont watched the trembling, oil-like motion in the wood, and licked his lips a little. An eager flame sprang up in the harp in response. The strings stirred and a hand reached for him, a hand made of shadow that grew directly out of those strings. Fleamont watched in detached interest as the fingers closed around his wrist.

“We have threats to make, you and I,” he told the harp, and the strings sang in response to the sound of his voice.

*

“These robes are _itchy._ ”

“I trust that you’ll put up with it, Sirius, and not do what you did last time,” Fleamont said, not looking over his shoulder as they entered the Wizengamot’s Meeting Chamber. Overhead arched a dome the color of mother-of-pearl. Fleamont, though, watched the defensive runes carved around the bottom of that dome. They were professionally done, but no matter how hard he searched—and he looked at a different portion of them each time he came into the Chamber—he could find none that protected against mental manipulation, let alone the weaving of ordinary words.

“There were some people who doubted that I had an Animagus form!”

“And of course,” Fleamont said, pivoting on one heel to watch Sirius, who had his hand shoved up his sleeve to scratch, “you had no _choice_ but to transform right there, fling yourself on the floor, and roll around in the robes. Then piddle on them.”

Sirius’s face turned the color of dusky amber. “I had to go, and they don’t consider that a good excuse to let you out of one of these bloody meetings,” he muttered.

“You could have made a dignified, united front with me,” Fleamont continued in a mild voice. “But you didn’t. You acted like a dirty animal. Not even an animal. A dog who couldn’t even be housebroken.”

“I said I was sorry already, didn’t I?”

A soft laugh sounded behind him. “You much bely your fearsome reputation, Mr. Potter. I’ve seen more even-tempered people driven to distraction by my cousin.”

Fleamont turned with a polite smile to face Narcissa Malfoy. “Sirius knows me,” he said. “He knows what I mean and don’t mean.” He didn’t add that Sirius had seen him sacrifice Peter Pettigrew’s soul to an abyss to protect Harry, and so Fleamont could afford to take a milder tack with him. “Mrs. Malfoy. You’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. The same.” Narcissa let her eyes drift to the floor, her eyelashes drooping gracefully above them. “I don’t know if you knew, but Lucius and I have a son exactly Harry’s age. Draco. I think the boys might enjoy playing together, and I wanted to extend the invitation.”

“Like we’ll _ever_ let Harry,” Sirius began.

“We’ll take it into consideration, Mrs. Malfoy,” Fleamont intervened. In truth, he felt the same way as Sirius, at least if they were being invited to Malfoy Manor. No way would he let Harry traipse into a Death Eater’s nest where there might be alarms or wards that would reveal the protections on him before Fleamont was ready to let it happen. But playing together at Potter Place might be permissible.

“You could learn some manners from him, cousin,” Narcissa murmured with a glance at Sirius. She smiled at Fleamont and drifted away.

“How can you be so courteous?” Sirius complained under his breath as they walked towards their seats. “You know they fought on the side that killed Lily and James.”

“And I’m going to make them into my own instruments,” Fleamont said calmly. “I find that a much more satisfying vengeance than simply killing them.”

Sirius’s eyes widened. “Ohhhh. I never thought of it that way.”

Fleamont glanced back at him with his lips twitching. Sirius didn’t think of it “that way” most of the time, it seemed.

But Fleamont could do more than put up with Sirius; he could love him. Sirius was still the boy he and Euphemia had sheltered for two years, and he would never do anything to endanger Harry. And to his credit, when Fleamont had shown him that some of his pranks _could_ endanger Harry, he had backed off and never done anything like them again, despite how addicted to them he was.

“How are you going to do that?” Sirius whispered to him as Fleamont reached the level of the seats where they would sit.

Fleamont shook his head and said nothing else. Sirius sank into place beside him, pouting (less adorably than Harry). Here, he had no power to speak. The Wizengamot was received for the oldest witches and wizards in society—well, and the “important” ones, of course. The reputation of the Black family had been tattered in the last war, given the unapologetic actions of Bellatrix Lestrange and Walburga Black. Fleamont’s age had earned him a place.

And coming towards the front of the room was Albus Dumbledore, who stood among the oldest in this room, if not _the_ oldest.

Albus swept the room with a smiling gaze, and then oriented on Fleamont and nodded. “Mr. Potter has asked special permission to address the Wizengamot before the session begins, about his grandson,” he said, without indicating that he found the request at all unusual, or that he might have been the reason for it.

“Thank you, Chief Warlock,” Fleamont said, and noted the faint flicker in the man’s face. Albus was used to people being more impolite than he was, and he liked it. That way, he could twinkle at them.

But Fleamont didn’t intend to be anything less than exquisitely courteous. He inclined his head and continued, “Many of you might not be aware of it, but the owl post brings daily threats to Harry’s health and safety.”

“How devastating,” said Lucius Malfoy, right on cue. “I know I would feel that way if it were _my_ son at stake.”

Fleamont nodded again, while not glancing at Lucius’s left arm. Someday, if Voldemort returned and Lucius joined him again, he would get to find out how it felt. “I simply wanted to confirm a very old story that I sometimes hear being whispered about, by people who are unsure of the reputation of my family and what is real or not.”

“You must admit,” Albus murmured, on cue for _him_ , “the reputations of old pure-blood families do so often turn out to be exaggerated.”

Sirius was fuming next to him, Fleamont knew, but at least he wasn’t standing or shouting out. Fleamont smiled faintly. “Indeed. In this case, I want to ask how many people have heard of Herodotus the Golden.”

There were uncertain glances among many members of the Wizengamot, but no one spoke until Albus said, “Please tell us, Mr. Potter.”

His voice was bland, too bland. Fleamont gave the same faint smile around the room and said, “He was a Chief Warlock who envied the wealth and might of the Potters in the seventeenth century. He had been invited to their home and knew that they lived on the seventh floor. He led a detachment of warriors over the top of the wards on brooms and landed on the roof. He slaughtered the head of the family, his two daughters, their husbands, and most of the children. Only a young daughter escaped.”

“While this story relates, perhaps, to the determination with which you guard the young Mr. Potter, I have to admit that I do not see the relevance,” said Albus.

“The daughter lived,” Fleamont said quietly, “and Herodotus and his attackers died. You see, she made it to a particular door where we kept specific weapons—instruments that, when strummed, can pick up the range of any living heartbeat in the house, or any heartbeat the player knows. She played the harp, and made them all dance to their deaths.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Lucius asked, “And the reason you want to tell us this legend, Mr. Potter? Is it simply so that no one will attack your home?”

Fleamont didn’t think it was his imagination that Lucius looked paler than before, although of course with his coloring it was hard to be sure. He tilted his head. “That is one possibility, Mr. Malfoy. But one thing you should consider is that in the seventeenth century, Pensieves had not developed to the level of sophistication that they have now.”

He paused. The silence spread out in ripples. Sirius was bouncing in glee next to him, but at least managed to hold his teeth shut and the excitement down to a dull whistle.

“Are you suggesting,” said Augusta Longbottom, who sounded as if she were about to choke on her own spit, “that you could take a Pensieve memory, isolate a heartbeat from it, and play this _harp_ to match that heartbeat?”

“Oh, yes,” Fleamont said softly. “I could do that.” He paused again. “Not that I would need to, of course, you understand, as long as no one threatens my grandson.”

“That would be _murder_ , Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore was frowning.

“It would be a specialized form of suicide,” Fleamont said, staring at him, “given that it would have happened after a warning. And so would attempting to harm my grandson.”

“You gave us this as a warning, then?” Narcissa was staring up at him from her seat beside her husband.

“I like to give me warnings. Mostly because my house-elves do fuss so about the blood,” said Fleamont, and shrugged, and sat down.

The rest of the Wizengamot meeting proceeded much as normal, except for the cautious glances that various members gave him, and the chuckling and hand-rubbing of Sirius next to him.

It was Albus Fleamont watched. The twinkle in his eyes had gone out, and Fleamont was content. He had received advance warning from a number of sources that Albus had intended to start hinting, delicately, at this meeting, that Harry Potter was so vital to the future safety of the world that his custody should never be left to one person, even if that person was his grandfather.

Fleamont hoped that he had warned Albus away from that idea. But he had plans in motion, with Lucius as a cog in one of them, in case Albus chose to be deaf.

And in one important matter, today, he had lied. Fleamont almost hoped that Albus knew that.

_He’s the sort who needs his hand burned before he believes anyone else that the fire is hot._


	2. Chapter 2

“Grand, is it okay if I hate some Muggles?”

Fleamont put down the letter he was writing—honestly, one would think Lucius Malfoy had never participated in intrigue before—and looked thoughtfully at Harry. He stood in the doorway of the library with his head bowed, his foot tracing over the floor in front of him. Fleamont thought he knew why. If Harry had brought that question to Sirius, Sirius would have been too enthusiastic about silencing Harry.

“If you hate them for good reasons,” Fleamont answered, putting his quill aside, too, when he saw this would probably be a longer conversation. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat, Harry?”

Harry did, after taking a deep breath that seemed to fill him with courage. He sat on the black couch in Fleamont’s study and swung his legs. At least he had grown more in the past year than most people might expect, Fleamont thought. Some of the potions added to his food by the house-elves had worked.

“I just—Sirius says it’s not right to hate Muggles,” Harry muttered, brow furrowed. “But he hates a lot of wizards. So why is it different?”

“It’s more about not wanting them to exist,” Fleamont said quietly. “Do you want Muggles to stop existing?”

“You mean—like all Muggles, all over the world?”

Fleamont nodded. Harry thought about it, this time letting his feet swing so his heels hit the couch with a regular thud. “No,” he said at last. “I just want some of them to go away and never bother me again.”

Fleamont smiled and reached out to ruffle his grandson’s hair. Harry closed his eyes in bliss the way he did so often, then jerked them open and looked at Fleamont in a kind of panic. Fleamont smoothly ignored that. “Then I think that’s fine, Harry. Sirius probably wants the same thing for the wizards he hates. He doesn’t want them to stop existing.” He paused. “Is this about the Dursleys?”

Harry stared at the floor. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I said I hated them this morning, and Sirius told me I shouldn’t hate them and Muggles don’t know what they’re doing half the time.”

Fleamont controlled the spasm of rage inside him. Sirius didn’t know any better, didn’t know why being able to say something like this was a big deal for Harry and he shouldn’t discourage it. He shrugged. “Remember that Sirius never saw you come out of that cupboard and never saw what they did to you personally. He thinks he has distance from the situation.”

Harry found his lap fascinating suddenly. “I—I told him a little.”

“That’s your right,” Fleamont said, with a firm nod when Harry glanced up at him. “But that’s not the same as actually seeing it happen right in front of you. I think we can assume that Sirius would say something different if he saw that happen.”

Harry brightened up a little. “So Sirius won’t hate me for saying I hate the Dursleys?”

“No. He may scold you and he may think sometimes that you remind him of other wizards he knows who say they hate Muggles, but he’ll come to accept it. And you have every right to go on saying it.”

Harry jumped off the couch and grabbed Fleamont in one of those flying hugs that was still startling no matter how many times it happened. Fleamont hugged him back, letting his arms close tight around Harry and his head droop a little so that his chin rested on Harry’s head. Then Harry squirmed and said, “I’m going to fly!”

“Is Sirius here to supervise you?” Fleamont was pretty sure he remembered Sirius saying this morning that he was going to follow up on one of the hints they had about Remus Lupin’s whereabouts.

Harry blinked. “The house-elves are going to be there, Grand.”

“What did I say about flying with any other supervision than a human’s, Harry?” In truth, Fleamont trusted their house-elves, but Harry had a tendency to pull daring maneuvers, and the elves sometimes got so upset about watching that they intervened even though Harry was doing something that would land him safely.

“You said not to,” Harry muttered, and then shook his head. “But Graaaand…”

“Whining does not get you what you want,” Fleamont said, and stood, and bent over to kiss Harry on the forehead, where the faded scar still lingered. “But I’ll come out with you, and watch you fly.”

“Really?” Harry beamed up at him. “I wanted to ask you, it’s just, you’re so busy all the time.”

 _That must stop,_ Fleamont told himself as he held out his hand and said, “I’m never too busy to spend time with you, Harry.” He walked out of the study without a backwards glance. The letter to Lucius could wait. If the man was the master intriguer that people had told Fleamont—and he had bragged—that he was, then he ought to be able to handle this simple a counterstroke by himself, anyway.

*

Fleamont eyed the tawny owl that had landed on the table in front of him. It was an anonymous bird from the Hogwarts Owlery, but he didn’t find it as anonymous as all that. After all, there was only one person who would be writing to him from Hogwarts.

“I think we should blow up the letter and get it over with,” Sirius muttered. He looked haggard, and Fleamont couldn’t blame him for his bad mood. Once again, the rumor that was supposedly going to lead to Remus Lupin had turned out to be just a rumor.

“The owl hasn’t done anything wrong to be hit with the shrapnel,” Fleamont pointed out, and extended his hand. “Besides, nothing that aimed to harm Harry could get through the wards.” The owl hooted softly and hopped over to him, giving a slashing glance at Sirius that he ignored.

“I _know_ Dumbledore has to be behind Moony’s disappearance somehow,” Sirius muttered, burying himself in a cup of tea. “I just _know_ it.”

Fleamont nodded as he opened the letter. He sincerely doubted Dumbledore would kill Remus Lupin, but he wouldn’t be above manipulating the man to keep him away from Harry. And from what Fleamont knew and what Sirius had said, words could strike deeper into the soul of a man like Lupin than blows would.

The letter was an uncharacteristically simple note signed with only Dumbledore’s first and last name, and it said, equally simply, _I think we should talk. The fate of the Boy-Who-Lived is too important to be left up to one person alone._

“Unless that one person is you, I believe you would say,” Fleamont muttered. He folded up the letter and tapped it against his knuckles, considering.

“What?”

“Nothing important.” Fleamont turned to Sirius and made his decision. He was curious what Albus would have to say to him in person, and he thought it would take some of the man’s attention off the counterstroke that appeared to have Malfoy in such a tizzy. “Sirius, this is important. I know that you want to find Remus, but you have to stay here with Harry today. If I’m not back by noon, tighten the wards and ignore any owl you receive.”

Sirius’s face turned pale. “Wait. That letter from Dumbledore was a request for a _meeting_? And you’re going to _do it_?”

Fleamont nodded. “Dumbledore can’t touch Harry directly, but he still has power with the media and as the beloved Headmaster of Hogwarts. Harry still has four years to go before he attends the school. Dumbledore could poison enough minds against Harry that he would have a miserable time there. I’m going to defang him now.”

“You know how much we both depend on you, Fleamont.” Sirius was whispering now. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have the same kind of protection against magic and poison and the like that Harry does.”

“Harry deserves to have happiness, not just safety.” Fleamont stood up. “I’m going to reply and tell him that we’ll meet at Madam Malkin’s. It’s in the middle of Diagon Alley. That will make him less likely to try something.”

“But he still _could_.”

“I know.” _I almost hope he does._ “But we’re not going to huddle in the Potter wards and give him free rein either, Sirius. That is not the way this is going to work.”

Sirius appeared to waver for a moment. Then his face firmed, and he nodded. “All right. Noon. If—if you don’t come back, how long should Harry and I stay in the wards?”

“You won’t need to do that.” Fleamont smiled, taking pity on Sirius’s evident upset, and gestured with his head. “Come on, let me show you. It’s something that someone besides me should know anyway, and Harry’s too young.”

Sirius followed him towards the staircase willingly enough, but they were only part of the way to the seventh floor when he cleared his throat uneasily. “Does this have anything to do with the instruments that you told the Wizengamot about the other day?”

Fleamont snorted a little. “No. Same floor, that’s all.”

Sirius nodded, but he didn’t seem much more pleased even though they turned in the opposite direction from the room of the instruments at the top of the stairs. Fleamont opened the door he wanted with nothing more than a key, and watched Sirius stare around the large, almost empty chamber at the top of the house with a gobsmacked expression.

Empty, that is, except for what most people would probably take as huge artwork on the walls, made entirely of smoke-white and silk-grey feathers. But Fleamont knew the Blacks had once had something similar, in at least one of their properties, and that meant Sirius would be familiar with it.

Sirius turned around, his jaw hanging open and trembling a little. “You—you would actually _trust_ me to take the Potter house off the ground?”

“You’re Harry’s legal guardian if I’m dead,” Fleamont said softly. “My will states it, and all the magical protections are set in place to transfer over to you. Yes, if I don’t come back, I want you to promise me that you’ll wait for a day, just to give the elves enough time to go and purchase as much food as they can, and then you’ll make Potter Place fly.”

“Where?” Sirius’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes darting around the room as if he were imagining what it would look like with the vast wings unfurled. For that matter, Fleamont only knew because he had viewed one of his grandfather’s Pensieve memories.

“Wherever you want,” Fleamont said. “There are special maps that will guide you to some Unplottable pieces of land we still own, if you want. Or you can go to one of the Black properties and retreat there. Personally, I’d suggest either an Unplottable piece of land or another country. Dumbledore is too likely to think of looking into the Black lands.”

“And I gave him all the secrets of them when I was with the Order, more’s the pity,” muttered Sirius. He shoved his hand through his hair and took a long, deep breath. “All right. So—why are you taking this risk? Wanting Harry to be happy at Hogwarts really isn’t enough of an answer.” He gave Fleamont the stern look of the man he could be someday, the man he was still growing into after being stalled by prison.

“Because Albus will keep pushing and pushing until he gets what he wants, otherwise,” Fleamont said. “I want him to know that he can’t do that _now_ , and not go on enacting plans that might take months or years to ripen.” He sighed and looked away from Sirius. “I have everything prepared in case I don’t come back. But I intend to be back.”

Sirius was silent for long enough that Fleamont did wonder if he would agree. Then he sighed in turn and clapped Fleamont on the shoulder. “You’d better come back, is all. I’m not going to answer all Harry’s questions about where Grand went if you don’t.”

Fleamont let a fleeting smile pass over his face. “You won’t have to.”

*

“An interesting meeting place you chose, Mr. Potter.”

Fleamont smiled pleasantly. He didn’t see the need to use masks around Dumbledore. “I’m sure you know exactly why I chose it.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, then nodded. “But as there’s no place to sit here, shall we go elsewhere?” He was already striding up Diagon Alley as he spoke, not looking over his shoulder, no doubt assuming that Fleamont would agree with him and follow along like the little obedient dog Dumbledore thought all wizards were.

Fleamont remained standing exactly where he was, hearing the murmuring around him as some people caught sight of them. He didn’t move. Dumbledore’s shoulders tensed, and he turned around to stare.

Fleamont arched his eyebrows. “You don’t even know what I was going to suggest, Headmaster Dumbledore.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore recovered fast, Fleamont would give him that, and his eyes were lit with what might even have been a genuine twinkle. “I thought the way you stood still indicated some hesitation about the geography of Diagon Alley.”

“No, merely bewilderment about your lack of manners,” said Fleamont, since they appeared to be having this fight in public. “Since I am the invited guest, it is up to me to choose the spot for our luncheon.”

Dumbledore assented with a small shrug of his shoulders and another merry twinkle. “Lead on, please, Mr. Potter.”

Fleamont took Dumbledore to the restaurant he’d already claimed reservations at, the Golden Apple, near the line that divided Diagon Alley from Knockturn Alley. He noted with interest that Dumbledore displayed open nervousness as they got near Knockturn. Why? It wasn’t as though any warlock or hag could actually challenge such a powerful wizard.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, when they had ordered some of the varied soups the place was famous for, “please tell me why you insist on keeping Harry away from the wizarding world. I know you took him from his relatives partially because you claimed he should grow up among his own kind. But how can he do that if no one ever sees him?”

“Am I not equally his relative, Headmaster?”

“Well, yes. Of course.” Already a frown was stretching across Dumbledore’s face. “You know what I meant.”

“No,” Fleamont said softly. “I don’t. Especially considering that the Muggles abused Harry, and under any number of laws in _our_ world, that means any wizard can decline to call the people who did that ‘family.’”

“They did not deserve _murder._ ”

Dumbledore cut off as their soups arrived. Fleamont waited with his spoon in his tomato bisque. He thought that Dumbledore’s anger about the Dursleys was hypocritical, but more than that, he thought that it wasn’t even about the murders. It was more that his judgment had been questioned, and he hadn’t been able to keep Harry “safe” and then spring him on the world after telling that world that Harry was dead like he had planned.

“Perhaps not. But neither did my grandson deserve their abuse.”

“I was disappointed to hear you speaking to pure-blood supremacists,” said Dumbledore, changing the subject in a way he probably thought was adroit. In truth, Fleamont thought the man had lost the knack of dealing with anyone who didn’t go cringing in awe of him. He sipped his soup and let his eyes twinkle again. “But perhaps that is a way of introducing Harry to the _Potter_ part of his heritage?”

Fleamont shrugged. “My father was accused again and again of being a Muggle-lover, Headmaster. Say rather that I plan to continue the fine tradition of not being what anyone else thinks I should be.”

Dumbledore sighed. “You know that people like Malfoy would kill the boy on Voldemort’s command.”

“And you know that the Muggles could have killed Harry, but yet you continue to defend them.”

“You should have _followed the proper course of justice._ They deserved a trial, not an execution!”

“As though,” Fleamont said, leaning forwards over his soup and letting his voice drop to the same intensity Dumbledore’s had assumed, “you have anything to say to the matter, when you never fought for Sirius Black to have a trial.”

Dumbledore sat back with a heavy sound and stared in silence at Fleamont for a moment more. Then he went back to eating his soup, a rather watery gazpacho. Fleamont finished his bisque and regretted that the meeting was too tense for him to even pretend to drink some of the Golden Apple’s famous cider.

“That was a mistake, one I admit and I regret,” Dumbledore said at last. “But you do not seem to regret your murder of the Muggles.”

“You have yet to find any proof that links me to them.” And Fleamont knew that was true. After all, it had been Severus Snape who had actually murdered Petunia Dursley and left traps in the walls of the house that had done for Vernon Dudley. Their son had been left untouched by mutual agreement, although Fleamont didn’t care enough to find out what had happened to the boy. Presumably he was living with some other relative.

“Do you not have a conscience?”

“Really, Headmaster? This conversation is going in circles.” Fleamont pulled some Galleons from his pocket to deposit on the table. Soon, if he had estimated Dumbledore correctly, would come the moment when he should leave the hint that would lure Dumbledore into rash action. “You are old enough, unlike some of the others, to remember the old stories of Potter rage. Attend to them, and leave me and my grandson alone.”

“So you are saying that you were _justified_ in committing murder because it was your grandson who was harmed?”

“I was saying that I don’t care if I was justified or not, because Harry was harmed.”

Fleamont stood, and for a moment stared down at Dumbledore, who was staring back at him.

“You cannot have instruments in your house that you could strum in response to a Pensieved heartbeat,” Dumbledore said abruptly. “That magic does not exist, and neither do the artifacts.”

Fleamont refrained from smiling and only arched his eyebrows a little. “So you are accusing me of lying in front of the Wizengamot?”

“That chamber has seen many lies, but few so public. That defense you mentioned was a lie.”

“Then it was a lie,” said Fleamont comfortably. “What do I care, if it makes a few of the Death Eaters and others who might wish to hurt Harry reconsider any attempts they might have in mind to invade Potter Place?” _The hook is set. Swallow the bait, Dumbledore. I went to such effort to prepare it for you._

“It will backfire. You will encourage others to test your defenses so they can prove you wrong, or even gain control of this powerful magic that doesn’t exist.”

“Then they can deal with the defenses that _do_ exist.”

“You were in a coma for so many years, Mr. Potter, that I would not be surprised if the Potter wards had weakened.”

Fleamont glanced aside, once, and saw the way that Dumbledore’s mouth firmed. He swallowed and said, “Be that as it may, you know that I have protected Harry against anyone who could possibly interfere with him.”

“The boy himself. The house? You are playing with forces you do not understand, Fleamont.”

“I haven’t given you leave to address me by my first name, _Albus._ ”

“Forgive me.” Dumbledore softened his voice, absurdly. “I thought we shared a common concern in defense of the boy.”

_Why do you call him that so much more often than his name, Headmaster? Could it be that you’re attempting to distance yourself from him and the pain you think it necessary to put him through by referring to him as a generic child?_

But saying that right now would prove he was sharper than Dumbledore thought at the moment, and pierce holes in his own manipulation. Fleamont let himself obviously swallow again, and then say, “Well, I’ve done what I can. You can’t possibly come up with any other defense that could surpass what I’ve done for Harry.”

“I assure you that I could protect the child well, and what is more, raise him with a sense of right and wrong..”

Fleamont turned and left without another word, since the Galleons were on the table. It wasn’t until he was well away from the Golden Apple, almost to the Apparition point, that he permitted himself a harsh smile.

_Bait, swallowed._


	3. Chapter 3

“Grand!”

Harry sprinted towards him the minute the doors opened into the entrance hall of Potter Place. Fleamont swept him up and held him close, shutting his eyes. The fear that he hadn’t admitted even to himself retreated, and he kissed the top of Harry’s head.

“You were gone longer than you said you would be.”

Fleamont pulled away and nodded to Sirius, even though he had never specified how long his meeting with Dumbledore would take. It was fifteen minutes to noon, and he could read the nervousness boiling off Sirius like steam. “I know. I’m sorry for that. I really did think that I’d be done earlier.”

Sirius hesitated, then nodded and reached out to take Harry’s hand. “Come on, little monster, let’s go get some lunch now that you can see your Grand’s home and he’s fine.”

“I’m not the monster, Monster’s the monster,” Harry protested as Sirius pulled him down the corridor and the shadow flickered as the leopard followed him. But he looked over his shoulder, his eyes compelling, and Fleamont nodded and followed.

The house-elves had prepared bacon-and-cheese sandwiches done the way Harry most liked them. Fleamont dug in enthusiastically despite the soup he’d had. Watching Albus Dumbledore across the table hadn’t given him much of an appetite.

Well, not for food, anyway. For his enemy’s humiliation, yes.

“So what happened?” Sirius asked, leaning closer and lowering his voice as though Harry wasn’t sitting at the same table.

Fleamont made a shushing motion with one hand, and Sirius sat back, but Harry said, “I want to know what happened, too, Grand.”

Fleamont considered Harry for a second, then shook his head. “I can’t tell you because you’re too young, Harry.”

Harry folded his arms. “I’m seven years old. And I read the book that you gave me on merrow, Grand.”

Fleamont waited to see where _this_ was going. From the way Sirius buried his head in his arms and huffed a laugh, he probably already knew. “Go on, Harry.”

Harry faltered a little in the face of Fleamont’s calm gaze—Fleamont knew he still wasn’t used to adults taking him seriously—but then he shook his head and took a deep breath. “I know that a merrow child my age would be an adult by now! They age faster than us.”

“But you’re not a merrow child, Harry.”

“The thing is, Grand,” said Harry, and he tried to take on a serious tone that honestly only sounded pompous as it came out of his mouth, “I’m old enough in _some_ cultures to know _some_ things. So I’m an adult in those cultures. And you should treat me like that. You don’t want to treat me as more of a child than the merrows would, do you?” he asked.

“Merlin, Harry,” said Fleamont, with a shake of his head. “You might be the first Potter in Slytherin in centuries.”

Harry gave him an uncertain smile, but continued standing up in his chair. “Does that mean that you’re going to tell me what’s going on, Grand?”

“No.” Fleamont continued as Harry opened his mouth. “Even though you might be old enough in the merrow culture, Harry, you aren’t old enough in the human one. And this only has a little bit to do with age. If you were old enough and understood more of what was going on already, then you could choose whether to hear this or not. Right now, I think it would only taint you.”

Harry slumped back in his chair and watched him with a scowl for a second. Then he asked, “Is this like what you did to Peter Pettigrew, Grand?”

Fleamont caught his breath. “You were asleep during that, Harry.”

“I have eyes, Grand. I listened to what you said, and what Sirius said about it later.” Harry leaned forwards. “I just—you’ve been teaching me about ethics, and I don’t want you to have to kill people to protect me.”

“Because it’s wrong?” Fleamont had actually taken a more broad-based approach to ethics than that; rather than teaching Harry that one action was always wrong or right, he had taught him that it depended on the situation. He would think it a little disappointing if his training had failed.

“No. Because you said it hurts people when they kill other people.” Harry stared at him with anxious eyes now. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

The tension drained slowly out of Fleamont. He reached out and gently ruffled Harry’s hair. “I promise that I’m not going to kill someone, Harry. I’m at least not _planning_ on it.”

Harry blinked and blinked again. He bit his lip and searched Fleamont’s face anxiously. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes. I think I can accomplish what I want without killing anyone at all. I am not a _preferential_ murderer,” Fleamont added dryly. He raised an eyebrow at Sirius, who suddenly became intensely interested in his food. They would have a talk later about what Sirius had been saying in front of Harry.

“Okay, Grand!” Harry chirped, and then spent the rest of lunch explaining the broom maneuvers he planned to pull that afternoon and why he liked “The Tale of the Three Brothers” the most out of all the stories in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. Fleamont listened and smiled a little as he thought of what Harry would say when he found out the Potter family owned Death’s own Invisibility Cloak.

By the time he stood up from the lunch table, Fleamont felt rested and relaxed. He strolled slowly through the corridors, listening to the hum of strings that was right on the edges of his awareness.

He had told Harry the truth. He thought that he could accomplish what he wanted without killing anyone at all.

The bait he had fed Dumbledore was poisoned, oh yes. But not in the traditional way.

*

The wards sang like a gong and woke Fleamont from his rest. But he had been expecting that, and he sat up with a small stretch and a yawn and reached directly for his wand. Then he left his room and climbed a back staircase to the seventh floor.

Passing the door into the instruments’ room took the usual annoying bite from the lion, but once that was done, Fleamont tucked the small lute under his arm and walked towards the source of the disturbance. Dumbledore had listened to his story about Herodotus the Golden carefully, it seemed. He was tunneling under the wards, not rising above them.

He would only be able to do so because Fleamont had deliberately weakened the wards there. But Fleamont wouldn’t dream of ruining Dumbledore’s fun before the right moment. He sat in the entrance hall with the lute on his lap and waited.

The center of the stone floor revolved a few minutes later, and Fleamont saw the flicker of a spell like a huge golden drill before it faded. He raised his brows. That was a true innovation, something he had never seen before, and he would have to get Dumbledore to show it to him.

Well. In a short time, he would be able to.

Fleamont reached down and stroked the strings of the lute, setting them humming. The subtle sound pervaded the room, but Fleamont knew Dumbledore wouldn’t notice it, not now that he was within its range. Fleamont went on softly playing, and watched the oil-like sheen in the dark wood dance around his fingers.

Dumbledore rose from the hole on what must have been a magically-created ladder. He paused when he saw Fleamont. Then he shook his head. “Everything would have been so much easier if you had simply given me the boy.”

Fleamont looked at him, not stopping the music. “Tell me, Headmaster, why did you think you were the best guardian for him? Even granting that Sirius was in prison and you thought all the Potters dead, there were other people you could have left him with.”

Dumbledore let out a long, tired sigh. “He was obviously going to be incredibly important to the world, Mr. Potter. It would be so easy for him to get a swelled head, and that head turned by the wrong people. I tried to counter some of that by spreading the word that he was dead, and the rest by leaving him with people who would teach him humility—”

“People who _abused him_.” Fleamont was proud of himself for holding his voice to a dull roar. But the truly important thing was that his hands did not falter in their music.

“I regret the pain Harry suffered,” Dumbledore said, and he did sound as if he had. He smoothed one hand down the twinkling star-and-moon robes he wore, but made no move to attack. Fleamont wondered if he had started to notice that yet, and what rationalizations he was constructing for himself. “But arrogance is worse than abuse.”

“Explain that to me.” Fleamont’s hands moved so that more notes drifted out of the strings, ringing and creeping up the walls, sighing and breathing out sighs.

“Arrogance nearly destroyed the world once before,” Dumbledore said. “Tom Riddle’s arrogance was immense even as a child, and by the time he came to Hogwarts, it was too late to counter it. He thought himself superior to the Muggles he lived with. I wanted to be sure that Harry, who will have fame greater than Tom Riddle’s could ever be, wouldn’t go through the same process.”

“You wanted him to think himself inferior.”

“Ideally, I wanted him to think that Muggles and wizards were equal. But I did not leave him in an ideal environment, I agree.” Dumbledore shook his head. “Still, better that he be humbled and abused than so arrogant he endangers others.”

Fleamont stared at him in silence, hands still working. “You are senile if you think that he might not have grown up hating others the way that Voldemort hated the Muggles he lived with.”

“But the arrogance—”

“Could still have been there,” Fleamont interrupted. “Some abused children tell themselves stories of how much better they are than anyone else, and then work to get away from their abusers and control others. I met many of them in Slytherin when I was at Hogwarts, and some in Ravenclaw. Some in Gryffindor. You hoped for an outcome without having any way of ensuring it!”

“I would still think Harry better off with those Muggles,” Dumbledore said, reaching finally for his wand, “than with someone who would casually murder others.”

“You still have no proof that I was responsible for that.” Fleamont rippled the music up the walls and down to the floor, and now he could see Dumbledore’s face through a maze of silvery notes, if he wanted. He concentrated so the magic didn’t cloud his vision, though. No reason to let it do that. “You, on the other hand, were responsible for putting my grandson with people who abused him.”

“Would it have been better to let him grow up with a wizarding family who would have abused him in another way? Made him think he was the most important person in the world?” Dumbledore shook his head. “From what you said, Harry is adapting well to having you for a guardian. That shows the damage he endured cannot be as severe as you believe it was.”

Fleamont would have stopped playing in sheer outrage, but the lute guided his hands now; he had no choice but to play this song to the end. He kept them moving, but his eyes were steady. “You have no idea of the scars on his soul.”

“I know you will put more there if you keep him here and expose him to murder. And whatever other Dark magical powers you have as part of the Potter line.” Dumbledore gave the lute a look of gentle triumph. “I knew you were lying, Fleamont. I feel no change in my heart’s rhythms.”

“I was lying,” Fleamont agreed.

Dumbledore’s eyes snapped up and focused on him. Fleamont smiled. _He knows me well enough to realize that something worse is going to follow that revelation._

“But,” Fleamont added, as the last notes rose and quivered and died, “you were mistaken about which part. I can indeed control someone from a distance with a Pensieve memory of their heartbeat. But close to...”

The silvery notes dissolved from his vision, and another one replaced it. The inside of Dumbledore’s skull seemed to part and glow in front of him.

“I don’t control their heartbeats,” Fleamont said, as he swam into the middle of Dumbledore’s thoughts. “I control their minds.”

He felt the startled surge beneath him, the attempt to fight that he contemptuously ignored. Dumbledore might be a master of Occlumency, but the instruments of shadow stepped around all Occlumency defenses. They went into the physical brain itself, not the mindscape that trained wizards could defend.

Fleamont stepped into the middle of a blazing network of silvery trails, dodging thoughts and shifting memories. He looked around slowly, and let the sense of them filter into his mind, like learning to play a song. He wouldn’t make large changes until he was secure that they wouldn’t damage Dumbledore’s brain. In fact, large changes might not be necessary at all. The threat could be enough.

All Fleamont wanted, really, was that Dumbledore leave him and his family in peace. If he could persuade him to do that, then his goal was accomplished.

He did, of course, tighten a few particular knots as he saw them come up. He gave Dumbledore a clear command never to harm him, Harry, or Sirius, and to cease talking about them to other people in the Wizengamot except in response to a direct question. Those responses would have to be noncommittal.

He also came across a plan to tamper with Harry’s Hogwarts letter, and had to hold himself still so his lashing rage wouldn’t do damage he didn’t mean. But Fleamont reached out and simply obliterated that memory. Since Dumbledore tended never to tell other people about his plans, it now didn’t exist except in Fleamont’s own head.

He took a few other things he wanted, such as knowledge of the drill spell that had allowed Dumbledore to rise up under the Potter Place wards, and then stepped back. The silvery vision in front of him closed. Fleamont cocked his head. He hadn’t known how this would feel, since he had never used the lute or the harp before, but he could sense a definite tug on his awareness, like a string that led towards a leashed pet.

Which Dumbledore now was.

Fleamont closed his eyes and opened them, and smiled a little at he saw the corresponding rage in Dumbledore’s eyes. It was less than what Fleamont felt, which was why he should never have tangled with a Potter.

Fleamont didn’t actually need to say anything. He let his own emotions show, and Dumbledore’s gaze wavered and fell.

“You intended to kidnap a little boy,” Fleamont said softly. “You set that same little boy up to be abused. You were so afraid for what _might_ happen to the future of the world that you broke into that little boy’s home to take him away from the only true parent he’s ever known because you thought you knew better. You earned your fate, Albus. Deal with it.”

“If anyone ever finds out about what happened...” Dumbledore paused. “You didn’t prevent me from speaking of it.”

“I wondered when you would notice that.” Fleamont smiled and put the lute aside. “There are reasons that there aren’t a lot of stories floating around out there about the Potter defenses—which, incidentally, is also why I was able to lie to the Wizengamot about them. But do go ahead and picture someone in your mind and then imagine speaking to them about this, Albus. Try.”

Dumbledore, his brow furrowed, opened his mouth. The next second, he gasped and grabbed his forearm with a noise that was little short of a scream.

“I was _fading_ ,” he whispered.

Fleamont nodded and stood up, reaching for the lute to bring with him. “The true story of Herodotus the Golden is that he did slaughter the Potter family, and the daughter I mentioned did run for the instruments. But she didn’t make the invaders dance to their deaths. She bound them, and then she made them fade. They’re still bound here as ghosts, Albus. Or not ghosts. They are neither dead nor alive. There is no end to their torment that could be solved with passing on peacefully, as ghosts would. Not without a Potter’s permission.”

Dumbledore was staring at him with wide, glazed eyes that held, at last, the fear Fleamont had sought to impart. “You are insane,” he whispered.

“No,” Fleamont said. “Merely vengeful when someone attacks my family.” He smiled. “Honestly, Albus, I gave you enough information to tell you the defenses were deadly—even if it was in a different way than I claimed. But you persisted. You are reaping the rewards now.” He leaned forwards. “Let me tell you the way this is going to go.”

*

“So there won’t be a need for the documents you had me prepare after all?”

Lucius sounded distinctly disappointed, which amused Fleamont after all the whining he’d done over the past few days. But he only shrugged at Lucius’s head hovering in the fireplace. “Not right now. Keep them. The world may need to know the true history of the Dumbledore family someday.”

Lucius nodded, and the fire flickered out. Fleamont turned and found Sirius standing behind him, staring at him. “We don’t need to expose Dumbledore?”

“No. He broke in last night, and we came to a mutual understanding.”

“How—” And then Sirius abruptly cut himself off, and took a long breath. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“Really?” Fleamont considered Sirius. One of the things he would have said was a core part of his personality was how curious he was.

“Yeah. I insisted on being present when you fed Peter to that thing that ate his soul, and I still have nightmares about it.” Sirius shook his head. “I trust you. You wouldn’t have let Dumbledore live if you didn’t have absolute assurance that Harry was safe.”

Fleamont nodded. “Good. The plan I had Lucius working on will stay as backup insurance. I didn’t know at first if I would be able to lure Dumbledore close enough for my primary plan to take effect, but when he took the bait yesterday, I was fairly sure.”

Sirius let out a long, long sigh. “Good. I’m glad Harry is safe. If you don’t mind, I’m going to spend today following up on another rumor about Moony.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, Sirius, I did find the answer to that one,” Fleamont said. He’d had another look into Dumbledore’s brain this morning, from a distance, which had been amusing for him and excessively uncomfortable for Dumbledore. “You were right that he spoke to Remus and embittered him, as well as making him think he was unfit to take care of Harry. But Remus is in Britain.”

Sirius stared at him. “Where? What? Why wouldn’t he have come back to us?”

“He’s in Knockturn Alley. I thought Albus seemed strangely uncomfortable when we got close to it. He must have thought I had some hint and was on the verge of going there.” Fleamont gave Sirius a sad smile. “And from what I saw of Albus’s memories, he did such a good job with his ‘persuasion’ that Remus has essentially withdrawn from all contact with humans.”

Sirius’s eyes burned again, like a wolf’s this time. “Then I’m going to find him and bring him home. And whatever you did to Albus was worth it.”

Fleamont nodded as he watched Sirius sprint from the room. He agreed, though not exactly for the same reasons.

It was simply that no one should ever cross a Potter and expect to get away with it.

“Grand?”

Fleamont looked up with a smile. Harry was waiting with one of his history books and a frown on his face. “I don’t understand this one.”

“Then I’ll help explain it to you,” Fleamont said, and ruffled Harry’s hair as he went over to sit with him and pick up the book.

For Harry, there were no laws he would not break. There were no lines he would not cross.

He was a Potter, and this was his family.

**The End.**


End file.
